Angrily, he snatched Vance's mobile phone from his pocket, swivelling on his heel as he did so yes, the second man, no attempt at indifference, they were determined to pressure him, like another bill falling on his doormat the moment he was declared bankrupt… He punched out the number Burton had given him and waited. The concourse seemed airless, its crowds devouring his oxygen.
Thanks for screwing Vance's airplane!" he snapped even before Burton spoke.
"Who is this?" he heard, but Burton already knew.
"It was sabotage, Burton. I know the guy, I saw him on security videotape. The name Strickland mean anything to you?"
"Gant? No, it doesn't who is he?"
"One of the guys who's ridden off into the Badlands, Burton — just a nobody who downed two of Alan's airplanes. Maybe he was supposed to set you up for the deal you've just done? I wouldn't know!"
"What the hell do you mean by that?"
"Listen to me, Burton. You said you wanted answers. You were there when the guy died. I got the answer. The guy was screwed. Is that really what you wanted to know?"
"You mean… it was deliberate? It was—?" Burton seemed winded. The two surveillance men had moved, but remained easily visible, unnerving Gant.
"It can't have been sabotage—"
"I'm telling you it was!"
"Look, Gant, I'm sorry you've had to read it in the papers I don't want you to think I turned my back on Alan easily. I didn't. But, as you said, Alan is dead, his company and his airliner are finished. I had to do what I've done. I have thousands of people depending on me. I did what was for the best."
After a long silence, Gant murmured: "Sure."
"Are you continuing to pursue this?" Burton asked.
The two men were still plainly visible. Did they belong to French counterintelligence, like the team in the hangar, like the man whose ID he now carried in his pocket? Edouard St. Cloud, agent ofDST. DST was it a French government thing?
"Yes," he snapped, as if challenged.
"Very well I'll pay your expenses, whatever they are. And I will listen to what you have to say, anything you discover. I — er, I must cut you off now, Gant. I have a waiting room full of people—"
"OK-I'll get back to you."
He cut the connection, continuing for a moment to stare at Vance's mobile phone, the one he had picked up from the sand on that headland overlooking the second crashed 494. The two-man team continued to hover about him like wasps.
Taxis. He saw the sign, a black arrow pointing the way. He moved they followed.
French counter-intelligence. He had tried to think it through on the flight from Oslo, but the ego had fought him, insisting on his scope for solitary action. The surveillance team, the newspaper headlines, had stripped him of that shallow confidence, and what he had entertained on the aircraft was now an imperative. This was local, it was European. He needed to talk to Aubrey, even if the old guy had retired along with Reagan and Thatcher, and the people who had run him in the Company. He needed advice and maybe hard to admit an operational controller. Hero's Arrest Sought… Screw you, Jack.
He followed the arrows, the two men behind but not moving in, content to wait, watch. He had made one call from Oslo, to someone who owed him favours who was still in Archives at Langley. Where can I find
Strickland?… Don 'tgive me that, they always keep tabs By midday, British time.
He hadn't called him yet. Maybe he had been warned off, or was just dismissive because he, too, had read the headlines. Mclntyre had, on the surface, a watertight case against him. Vance had, damn him, wired him money. A Federal employee was on the take from big business. The Post would have put a half-dozen reporters on the story by now. He was news.
Gant grimaced as he emerged into the cool midday light. A queue of tourists and businessmen at the taxi rank, a line of black cabs. The two men kept their distance, unhurried in their movements. The place was too public for them to try anything… Maybe they just wanted to see what he did, where he went, who he saw. The roar of a big jet taking off, the slamming of taxi doors.
He joined the queue. The men hesitated, then hung back, as if they were determined to show him he was under no immediate physical threat.
Just contained, controlled.
He had to locate Strickland, he was the key. The bomb maker for whoever. Could Aubrey help? He shook his head, not knowing.
The passenger in front of him, freshened with aftershave but with the back of his jacket deeply creased, got into a taxi, then it was his turn. He paused, his hand on the cab door. The two men smiled but did not move. He got into the taxi, a chilly sensation between his shoulder blades.
"Central London I'll tell you where."
The driver nodded and the taxi drew away from the kerb. He glanced back through the rear window. The tail-men were getting into the next cab. They'd follow him into London. He would have to lose them there before he made for Aubrey's place.
Aubrey an old man, retired. What could he do? The people following Gant wanted him dead The signals of his success littered the ornately inlaid side table, one or two of them scattered on the intricate Persian carpet. And yet he was unable to suppress a fury that he knew originated in anxiety, in the possibility of failure.
"Whichever shadowy master you are serving in the Elysee or the Quai d'Orsai or wherever, Roussillon, exposure is equally damaging to everyone involved in this affair!" David Winter-borne stormed.
The Frenchman was seated uncomfortably, primly on a Sheraton chair.
Fraser, Winterborne knew, was enjoying his discomfiture, even though he suppressed the signs of his pleasure.
Twice twice!" Winterborne continued.
"You let an amateur evade you even as you assure me that you believe Gant knows Strickland was involved!" The videotapes lay near the newspapers that blazoned the deal between Aero UK, Balzac-Stendhal and Artemis Airways. His own photograph was beneath many of the headlines, standing alongside Tim Burton and Bryan Coulthard. Early copies of the French press were equally enthusiastic, chauvinistic. Boeing was already mounting a counter-campaign in conjunction with the big American carriers. A transatlantic price war was in the offing and Skyliner was in the forefront of it.
"And where is Strickland?" he continued, turning to Fraser, whose lolling posture on the chaise became the bolt-uprightness of a chastened schoolboy.
"You must find Strickland he can't have just disappeared' "We're looking for him, sir."
"Look harder' He turned his back on them, as if preparing for an appearance on the balcony overlooking Eaton Square.
He had won. The daring of the fraud had kept Aero UK afloat for long enough, the sabotage had killed Vance Aircraft. Skyliner had saved Tim Burton, Europe's grand project had leasing orders beginning to flow in.
Now these people Gant and Strickland and perhaps Marian threatened him.
Somehow, Fraser and Roussillon had produced a whirlpool effect, drawing in people from their secret world. People opposed to him.
"Fraser, you say there is an FBI warrant for Gant's arrest can that be used?"
"I've made some enquiries, sir. The agent of the Bureau most closely involved is a man called Mclntyre. I've met him. He's dim and vindictive former Company man. He's persecuting Gant, not to put too fine a point—"
"Can it beusecf?"
"If Gant returns to the States, Mclntyre will put him out of harm's way. I'd bet on' He turned on them.
"Why has Gant involved himself?"
"Vance, probably. He was married to the daughter. He has a farm boy's view of the world. You know the Yanks, sir. They all hate big government, big business, out in the boondocks."